


nowhere to go but up

by noxes



Category: The Property of Hate
Genre: Everyone Needs A Hug, Family, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Foster Care, Gen, Hugs, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Misgendering, Nonbinary Character, Post-Ending AU, and everybody gets one, it's complicated - Freeform, kind of, unfair depictions of the foster care system, very very VERY subtle but it's there, will be addressed in later fics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2020-01-23 13:09:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18550414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noxes/pseuds/noxes
Summary: Half a year after Hero steps through a blank white door, their family finds them again.





	nowhere to go but up

**Author's Note:**

> iiii'm super nervous about this because TPoH is such a small fandom and i don't know how people will react to this but here take this thing i wrote in a week

_Once upon a time, a Hero opened a door._

 

\--

 

It’s been about half a year. You haven’t grown at all, really, and that’s rude and unfair, all the boys and most of the girls are taller than you now. Which would make you a target all on its own, but you just _had_ to make it easier to pick on you and make yourself the prime target, stick up for the other kids who got messed with. You just can’t seem to stay in your own lane anymore, and it’s all _his_ fault.

 

 _“I_ said _, I say…”_

 

Man. You should have said no. You should have said no, because if you had said no, you wouldn’t have ever become a hero.

 

(Oh, sorry, a _Hero._ Your bad.)

 

You wouldn’t feel the need to stand up for every bullied kid you see, or pick worms off the sidewalk after it rains to put them back in the grass. You would just be a normal kid, who’s able to pass those things by.

 

The World of Make Believe had had a role for you predetermined. Once you became a Hero, that was all you were. As RGB had said, you were a “what,” not a “who.”

 

There had been no story to you, no name, no family. As time had passed in Make Believe, your memories had faded, more and more, until you were only left with the vague idea of parents, a nebulous house, a ghost life leaving its ghost trail in your mind.

 

You were seven now. It had never, at any point, occurred to you that you might have been dreaming it all. Not then, not now. You knew that your adventure had been real in the same self-assured way that all children know that they are the most important thing in the universe.

 

Of course, there was just enough proof to drive you bonkers.

 

The kid that left Make Believe in the most curious manner possible was a different kid than the one who entered it. This new kid was quieter, jumpier, more introspective, more noticing of the small things around them. This new kid saw things that the old kid would not have.

 

Like, for instance, the knife-edged shadows that formed on the edges of your vision when you were scared. Like the new children’s book that had just come out, with the little red phonograph vendor in the background of the illustrations. Like the comics, the books, the TV shows, the movies, each holding little snippets of your great, grandiose, terrifying, unbelievable (no one ever believes you) adventure through the sleeping minds of the masses.

 

Also, this new kid could not remember the name from before. Or anything about the kid from before, really.

 

If someone had put your parents in front of you and asked you to identify them, you wouldn’t know who they were. You had woken up in a bunk bed that wasn’t yours (not anymore), in a house unfamiliar to you, surrounded by people who had no idea who you were. People who you didn’t know. You would assume that they were your parents, but. Well. That’s what comes of being a Hero; after all, don’t all Heroes have to make sacrifices?

 

The other Heroes, yes…

 

You’re walking home from school, pink bookbag slapping against your back. You wanted a cool green one that you saw, but Mrs. Rowling had said no, _girls_ wear _pink._

 

Scowling, you hike the dumb thing up on your shoulders a little higher and run your tongue over your teeth. Iron and copper greet your taste buds, but the blood’s from the split in your lip, not your teeth. Your teeth are all there and none of them are loose, which is good.

 

You’re still mad, at the big kids from earlier and at Mrs. Rowling, static rising in your ears, so you calm yourself by doing what you always do: thinking about your adventure.

 

You think about the friends you made. You wonder if Tinker and Tailor are still working with Cell, and if Cell’s been realized yet. You’re pretty sure she hasn’t been, but you never know for sure.

 

You wonder what TOby and Dial are doing now, since they don’t have to work for Her anymore. You wonder if it’s possible for Julienne and Melody to have kids, or if they would adopt, or if they even _want_ kids. You think it’d be cool to have two moms. Or two dads. Anybody but the Rowlings, really.

 

Did Click ever get fished out of the ocean? Did RGB ever make up with him? Is RGB okay? Assok? The other various Heroes you met? Do they know what happened to you?

 

This is making you feel worse, not better. You scratch the inside of your wrist and pinch until blood wells up and breathe through your nose.

 

_My name is Hero. I’m seven-and-a-bit years old. I’m half Indian, half British. My favorite colour is green. I have three fingers and one thumb on each hand._

 

You go over the date, the location, your homework, your schedule, trying not to think about how the only facts that you know about yourself are the things that don’t really matter at all.

 

You tug the pink backpack up on your shoulders. You inhale and exhale. You blink the colours away from squeezing your eyes shut so tightly. Yellow, cyan, green, magenta, red. You blink again, hard, and sniff.

 

You’re a big kid now, and big kids don’t cry. _Especially_ not over their big dumb sham artist tellyhead guides.

 

You sniff again and glare at the ground and walk home, being careful not to step on the cracks.

 

\--

 

You’re curled up on a park bench with your backpack under your head, trying to sleep, when someone shakes your shoulder.

 

“I told you, I’m not coming back this time, leave me alone,” you mutter at Mrs. Rowling’s insistent hand, not bothering to open your eyes.

 

“...okay well we’re gonna get into the frankly concernin’ implications of that later,” says a man’s cheerful voice with a distinctly Southern twang, “but could you maybe roll over and look up here, darlin’? You look a lot like a lil’ friend of mine who went missin’ a while back, and my family and I’ve been tryna find her for ages.”

 

You open your eyes, breath suddenly coming fast and sharp. _No way._

 

You’re afraid to roll over, because what if it isn’t him, what if it’s just a different man with the same annoying exaggerated accent, but you roll over anyway.

 

For a second, your heart plummets, because the person peering into your face does not, in fact, have a radio microphone for a head. For a second, you expect his face to fall, for him to apologize and say _wrong person, sorry_ and walk away.

 

But then your vision zooms out and you notice a bunch of other things. Like the tacky gold chain resting on his chest, and the green jacket (Heroes always wear green), and then you look really hard at his face (wavy red hair, pushed back from the forehead and falling softly down to the neck, freckles, a long nose, square glasses) and think, vaguely, _if Dial had a human head I’m pretty sure that’s what it would look like,_ and then his face lights up in unbridled joy and he plucks you off the bench and spins you around.

 

“It _is_ you!” he squeals. “I can’t believe it! I _told_ everyone that we’d find ya eventually, I said there’s no way you were dead, no way, yer too stubborn to die, but none of those suckers believed me—oh man, wait’ll TOby sees ya, I’ll be able to rub this in his face for _months—_ hey you didn’t get taller, did ya-”

 

Your head is spinning for multiple reasons, the least of which being that Dial’s only just stopped spinning you around and is babbling at you while squeezing you in a tight hug. You can’t catch half of what he’s saying, but you’re pretty sure he just said your friends thought you were _dead,_ and he’s mentioned TOby so that meant TOby was here and maybe if he was here your other friends were too, and, and, and _Dial!_

 

“Dial!” you whoop, wrapping your legs around his waist and burying your face in his shoulder.

 

“Yeah, I bet you missed me, ya little punk!” he says, grinning and messing up your hair. You don’t care. Even if Dial was kind of a butt (not to mention a traitor) in Make Believe, you still loved him. He was one of your friends, after all, a member of the weird, dysfunctional family you’d somehow acquired throughout your adventure.

 

“How—what—what are you _doing_ here?” you say wildly. “How’d you get-”

 

“It’s a long story, doll, a real long story,” he assures you, holding you under the arms like he did when you first met. “We’ll explain everything, I promise, oh man _nobody’s_ gonna believe this, they all thought you went and kicked the bucket on us—oh! _Hey!_ Man of the hour! _Hey, TOby!_ Get over here, dollface, look who I’ve found, you’re not gonna believe this-”

 

“Wait, wait, did you just say everybody thought I-” you start to say, but then you hear a familiar exasperated voice coming from the crowd next to you and your head whips around so fast your neck cracks.

 

You almost wouldn’t recognize the guy pushing through the crowd of tourists with relative ease if not for the voice and the familiar mop of hair. TOby looks almost nothing like his short, skinny doll-form—big and buff and scarred, people make way for him easily. You would be intimidated if the angry Jamaican-accented voice wasn’t so familiar to you.

 

“Dial, how many times—how many _fucking_ times have I told you to wait for me when y-” TOby starts to growl, but then pulls up at the sight of you. His human face is only marginally more expressive than the perpetual smile on his doll face, but you can see surprise and shock dawning on his rugged features.

 

“No way,” he says. “Is that her? Is that the kid?”

 

“You bet your buttons it’s her!” Dial crows, bouncing you on his hip. “I _told_ you, I told all of you that she was still alive and kickin’, but did ya listen to me? _Nooo,_ nobody listens to Dial-”

 

“You are a pathological liar and you did kind of work for Her, in case you forgot somehow—which I wouldn’t put past you,” TOby drawls, seeming to collect himself and scrutinizing you over his sunglasses.

 

“You worked for Her too!”

 

“Yeah, but I didn’t think the kid was alive, dumbass-”

 

“TOby?” you say. You think you might be hallucinating both of them. It’s possible; it’s hot and you’ve been laying on a metal bench for a good few hours. Then again, this feels too real to be a vision.

 

“Yeah, what?” he says, shifting his attention back to you. “Still can’t believe you’re alive, what kind of bullshit do you think you’re pulling, leaving us all like that? Do you have any idea how messed up-”

 

“Can I give you a hug?” you say. Your eyes sting; something wet trickles down the side of your face. You dash it away with your wrists and focus on his scarred, impassive face. He looks at you, unreadable as ever, before releasing a gusty sigh and holding his arms out. “Alright, yeah, whatever, just don’t get snot on me.”

 

For a guy who hates everything so much, he gives good hugs. Dial joins the hug after a few minutes.

 

The three of you stand there, in the square, uncaring of the people watching you. You allow yourself to think that maybe this is the ending that you’ve been looking for.

 

\--

 

“So the whole big showdown with Her happened,” Dial says. His hands move when he talks, broadcasting wide, expressive gestures. You have to duck sometimes in order not to get smacked. TOby’s carrying you so you can be eye level with Dial, who’s walking alongside and telling you what happened after you exited the World of Make Believe.

 

“And, of course, after you went ‘n kicked her ass, there was that big explosion, yeah? Blinded everyone for a hot second. And when everyone’s vision clears, surprise! All the Heroes are human again! Must have been a happy little side effect of Her hold on the land being reverted.

 

So there’s us, all runnin’ around like headless chickens, wonderin’ what the hey just happened, and Tinker and Tailor come peltin’ out of the marketplace in a lather, and TOby’s losin’ his mind (“Lies,” TOby interjects) and then we all calm down a bit and decide to go see what happened.

 

So we split up, and I go to where Her door was. I say _was,_ ‘cos the door ain’t there no more! Just—poof! So I’m ‘boutta go and investigate, when who do I see but cousin telly—tho’ of course he ain’t a telly anymore.”

 

Your stomach flips at the mention of RGB. You clench your pathetically small fists in the fabric of TOby’s striped shirt and try to focus on Dial’s voice past the static in your ears. It’s not easy.

 

“And he’s just sittin’ there on the ground like somebody’s yanked the rug out from under him, starin’ at nothin’, and when I go to shake his shoulder he looks me right in the eye and says you’re gone, the Hero’s gone.”

 

In your head. In your head. Fears, big and black and sharp. Focus, Hero. Focus.

 

“So RGB’s a total mess, practically catatonic, and everybody else is startin’ to get a lil’ bit worried, ‘cos he’s actin’ like someone went and killed his pet or his kid or somethin’ and nobody’s seen your skinny butt anywhere and…”

 

And. And what? What did he say?

 

You don’t know. The static in your head is too loud, the buzzing white noise of the television scratching the inside of your skull and the smell of ozone and metal in the air and the starched fabric of his suit jacket crumpling under your fingers—

 

“Whoa whoa whoa,” TOby interrupts your impending panic attack (why are you so scared he’s just trying to explain what happened) and says, “hold up, _what_ did you just say?”

 

“Uh-“

 

“Would you slow the hell down? I literally cannot process anything you’re saying. You need to go back about eight sentences and start from there—and for the record I was _not_ worried, you lying excuse for a Hero-“

 

“Okay, _that_ ain’t true and you know it-“

 

“And what’s that supposed to mean, eh?”

 

“You-! You literally told me that you were worried about her! I _heard_ you!”

 

“Oh bullshit you heard me, you didn’t even have ears-“

 

_“My entire head was a radio microphone-“_

 

“And,” TOby says, giving Dial a smile eerily reminiscent of his doll’s creepy stitched-on grin, “even if I _did_ say that, who would believe you?”

 

“Y- that’s- oh. Ooooh ho ho, that’s _evil.”_

 

“What are you talking about, Heroes are never evil, that’s the whole point.”

 

“TOby-“

 

“No. One. Will. Believe. You,” TOby says. You’re laughing by this point, panic attack gone and forgotten. Crisis averted, hallelujah. TOby kind of looks at you sideways, which makes you think that maybe he knew you were freaking out earlier. You appreciate him not making a big deal about it.

 

You stick your tongue out at him and he sticks his out back at you. Dial laughs at you both.

 

“Where,” you scrub at your eyes, “where are we going?”

 

“Well I was gettin’ to that point before I was so _rudely interrupted,”_ Dial says, glaring at TOby, who looks unperturbed. “But basically, after we all got outta Make Believe, we knew we couldn’t just live on the road. And since that little pink merchant lady decided to help us out-“

 

“Madras?” you say excitedly. “Madras helped you?”

 

Dial snaps his fingers. “That’s the one. Tho’ I’m pretty sure she only agreed to help ‘cos she’s sweet on that self-absorbed ol’ funk RGB.”

 

Now you’re excited. Madras was your favorite monster from the World of Make Believe! You had loved her soft pink colour scheme, her cool haircut, and the odd way she seemed to drag out her words, tantalizing them, letting them hang in the air long after she had said them.

 

“Is Madras here? In the living world? I wanna say hi to her!” you gasp.

 

“Oh bless your heart—no, darlin’, Mads is a ‘who,’ not a ‘what.’ Remember? She’s a character, not a Hero. She does, however, have some cool tricks up her frankly oversized sleeves that allow her to visit us, and she’s the the one who set us up with livin’ arrangements.”

 

You pout. You were really looking forward to seeing Madras again, but to be honest, you’re still reeling over the fact that they’re _here._

 

 _Your friends. Are here._ In the living world. All of them. Well, most of them. Here. With you. And they all-

 

Holy shhh—uh, crap. (No swearing.)

 

_They all thought you were dead._

 

Dead. Dial, TOby, Tinker, Tailor, Julienne, Melody, oh gods _Assok,_ everyone in the World of Make Believe thought you were _dead._

 

RGB. RGB thought you were dead. He didn’t know. Doesn’t know. He doesn’t _know,_ he doesn’t-

 

He thinks you’re dead. Thought you were dead. He saw you step boldly through Her door, walk into that pure white space to face Her all alone, and he did not see you come out.

 

Abruptly, you are yanked (hooked by the back of your shirt by a smooth bamboo cane) into a memory.

 

 _Your last memory of him—you turn back once at the door, hand on the doorknob, waiting for…for…for_ something. _A goodbye. Or even just an acknowledgment. Anything. You want him to look at you. And he does._

 

_He stares at you, screen glowing faintly. The test bar that makes up his mouth is a thin multi-coloured line at bottom of his screen, as if he’s pressing his lips together. He looks almost lost, hands twisting together as if he doesn’t know what to do with them, cane hooked over one arm._

 

_He tries for a smile. “Well,” he says, “good luck to you, Hero.” It’s a reminder to you as well as your name—you are the Hero. Your job is to save the world._

 

_Your job is also to die. You know that now. Maybe you always did._

 

_Looking at RGB, you can see that he knows it too. The line of his smile is crooked, and his hands are shaking. He tries to grab his cane, fumbles it, nearly drops it. “Oop!”_

 

_You turn away from the door and walk back to him as he straightens, working hard to keep his smile on his face. “Clumsy me, I suppose I’m a bit—ah, a bit nervous. Big day, and all that, eh?” he says, grinning wanly at you._

 

_You look at him, and then you say, “Can I hold your hand now?”_

 

_You remember, and he remembers too, you can tell. When you first met…you had reached for his hand…he had snatched it away. And from that point, he had always offered you his cane to hold onto._

 

_RGB clears his nonexistent throat in a burst of static. Reaches up to rub the top of his head, blows out a crackly sigh, and says, “Well, if you must,” with just a touch of his old snappishness._

 

_He offers his hand to you. You take it. His fingers fold warmly around yours; the material of his gloves rubs softly on your knuckles. Bringing your other hand up, you place it on the back of RGB’s hand and gently squeeze it._

 

 _You can see the exact moment that he breaks, and he doesn’t so much_ break _as shatter like spun glass, for RGB never does anything halfway, not even falling apart. His smile shivers and collapses, cyan ink a steady flow dripping from the bottom of his screen. His other hand comes up to cover yours, closing around both your hands, locking them in place. Unable to move, you watch in confusion and alarm as he drops to his knees in front of you, seemingly unable to support his own weight anymore._

 

_“RGB,” you say numbly. He shakes his head wordlessly and brings his hands and yours up to his face, pressing them, intertwined, against his screen. The heat radiating from him almost, but not quite, burns the skin on your hands, still faded white and colourless._

 

_“You don’t have to do this,” he says, voice a staticky whisper. “You don’t have to go through with this. You can stay here, figure out a way to get home. This doesn’t have to be the end for you. It-”_

 

_He cuts himself off, taking a long, deep breath. You can’t speak. You’re paralyzed._

 

“Please, _Hero,” he implores you. “I-I’m not…I don’t…I don’t want to say goodbye just yet. I know I’m being selfish, I_ know, _but…please understand, I…”_

 

_RGB trails off, fingers loosening around yours. You take your hands from his screen and put them on either side of his face, lifting it up to face yours. Blue drips from the bottom of his screen, steady, endless._

 

_He puts his hands over yours and stares into your face, screen blank and unreadable but for the liquid emotion on display at the bottom._

 

 _“I broke my rule for you,” he says softly. “I promised, I_ — _I_ swore _to myself that I’d never let myself love another Hero, and I’ve been—so horrid—I was trying to protect myself from you, because I knew this was going to happen_ … _”_

 

_You kiss his screen. It’s all you can do to keep yourself from crying, which you really don’t want to do, because you’re a Hero, and Heroes don’t ever cry._

 

_And, if you cry, your tears will hurt RGB._

 

_Despite everything that he’s done that has been…not great…you think he’s redeemed himself at this point. He’s trying, and that’s all you (or anyone) can ask of him (or anyone). And you love him, too. You do. And you tell him this._

 

_RGB hiccups when he cries, apparently, which would be adorable if you weren’t so scared._

 

_“Don’t go,” he says, twining his fingers behind your head, holding your forehead against his face. “Don’t leave me. I can’t lose you, too.”_

 

_You don’t want to go. You don’t. You want to stay here, stay curled in his arms like the child you are, block out all the pain and terror and rest for a bit. (Or forever.) But you can’t. Because this isn’t about you anymore._

 

_“I have to,” you force out. “I have to. I’m the Hero. This is what I have to do. I have to beat Her and set the world free. And I will._

 

_“And,” you breathe shakily and pull back, meeting his gaze with your own shaky, tearful, fiercely determined one. “I’ll be sure to come and find you afterwards. Okay?”_

 

_He stares at you, then his mouth curves up into the smallest of smiles. “Alright, Hero. Alright. I’ll be here. I’ll wait for you.”_

 

_“You better,” you say, poking him, and his smile grows._

 

_He holds your hands for one more second, and then his fingers open and he lets you go._

 

_You don’t look back when you step into Her domain, because if you did, you wouldn’t be able to go through with this. You almost look back. You almost end it all. You almost ask him to go and find another Hero, because you don’t want to die._

 

_But you don’t look back._

 

“Kid. Hey. Hey, kid!”

 

TOby’s gruff voice snaps you out of your quaint little stroll down memory lane, and you realize that you’ve been staring straight ahead, vacant as a doll, for several minutes. Dial is staring at you in unbridled concern, and TOby’s peering carefully at your face through his sunglasses. You shove the memory back down and shake your head a few times, forcing a smile. “Sorry, did you say something? I, um, zoned out.”

 

“Yeah, that was…um. You okay?” Dial says, reaching up to tilt your face over to him. You flinch.

 

It’s instinctive. Mrs. Rowling would sometimes give you a smack if you talked back. She didn’t like backtalk. It was one of the biggest reasons you kept running away from her house. You tried not to make a big deal about it in your head.

 

Judging by the way TOby stiffens and Dial looks like somebody just slapped _him,_ it _is_ a big deal.

 

Once he’s recovered himself, Dial whistles lowly. “You gettin’ bullied, kid?”

 

“No,” you say, twisting the zipper on your red sweatshirt. You got it to replace your raincoat. Your heart twists too. “Mrs. Rowling. My-my foster parent.”

 

“Foster parent?” TOby rumbles, confused. “Thought you had parents already.”

 

“Long story,” you choke. “Can we go back to the-“

 

“Oop—hey, Dial, we’re here.”

 

You look up and around. With a start, you realize the three of you are standing in front of a house.

 

What a house.

 

If you only look at it for a moment, it seems to be a normal house. A passing glance offers nothing more than a plain two-story exterior with a porch and a garden.

 

But then you look harder, and you notice other things. Like how you can’t quite nail what colour the house is. Or what material it’s made out of. One minute you swear it’s white vinyl siding, the next it’s a pale pink wood. Your eyes slide over the exterior like it’s wet ice, unable to focus long enough to tell you precisely what it is.

 

And the outline of the house seems thicker than everything around it, like a colouring book page in real life. Sometimes the colour doesn’t extend all the way to the edge of the outline; sometimes the colour extends beyond the edge of the outline.

 

The porch swing is white wood with a red pillow on it. No, upon closer inspection, it’s the armrest that's red. No, it’s just a very deep orange. And the wood of the swing is pale yellow. No, it’s not.

 

This is making your brain hurt. You rub your eyes.

 

“Welcome,” Dial grins at you, gesturing like a showman, “to the House of Paint: Livin’ World Edition!”

 

The House of Paint! Madras’ house! The Heroes! RGB! You can barely contain your excitement.

 

“You are such a gods-damned cheeseball,” TOby grumbles, interrupting the moment. “And for the record,” he says, addressing you now, “the foster parents conversation isn’t over.”

 

You swallow. You’re not really looking forward to talking about that. But you’re still excited!

 

“Hey! You two, where have you been?” the new voice makes you all perk up, and you feel a sudden rush of adrenaline.

 

That voice. You know that voice.

 

A short, lithe figure dresses in purple comes clacking around the side of the house. Pushing their curly hair out of their eyes, they open their mouth, seemingly prepared to launch into a full-scale lecture, when they stop and look at you in surprise, then mounting shock.

 

You know them. Of course you do. They might be human now, wearing skin and flesh and a human face in place of their wrappings and stitches, but you’d recognize Tailor anywhere.

 

“TOby,” they gasp, eyes suddenly overbright. _“TOby, is that-”_

 

“Yup,” he says, shifting you and lowering you to the ground. “Dial found her sleeping on a bench like a homeless person.”

 

Tailor stares at you, one hand over their mouth. You feel shaky inside.

 

It’s been half a year since you’ve seen this person. It’s been half a year since you’ve seen any of these people, and no one believed you when you talked about them. The adults had called you “imaginative,” the kids called you “crazy.” And other things, too.

 

But you’re not crazy, you’re not, because Tailor is saying your name, and picking you up and spinning you around and pressing their wet cheek to your wet cheek, and now they’re turning and calling Tinker outside, and. _And-_

 

 _And Tinker’s a human too!_ Tinker’s a person! A human! With two legs and two arms and hands and hair, and glasses, and really good posture, and eyes going wide with shock and dawning joy.

 

He doesn’t say much. But he squeezes you so tight, and it reminds you of when you hugged him for the first time in Cell’s shop, ecstatic because you love bugs, and praying mantises are your _favorite._

 

Dial’s smiling when you look over Tinker’s shoulder, a wide, cheesy grin. He gives you a double-thumbs up.

 

“I told ya they’d be happy to see ya!” he calls. Tailor yells back at him, demanding answers. Which, to his credit, he starts to provide, but he’s drowned out by a shout from another voice.

 

Your head snaps around just in time to feel someone slam into Tinker.

 

“Hero! Little Hero! You’re alive!” crows a lovely voice. Dark arms surround you and pull you in close to a strong, toned body. And a big warm hand rests on your back. And in your heart you know even without looking that it’s Julienne and Melody.

 

Julienne is a tall, dark woman, every bit as extraordinarily beautiful and incredibly strong as her Make-Believe self had been; Melody is a shorter, plump woman with honey-coloured hair, every bit as grand and gentle as she used to be.

 

You would take the time to be surprised that she’s nonverbal, but you’re too busy crying.

 

The others surround you, and you start to laugh and continue to cry and your friends’ faces are all blurring together, and you’re not thinking about Mrs. Rowling or her dumb kids or the child protection officers or the bench or the backpack or anything, you’re just really really happy.

 

You’re not thinking about the bad stuff, and everything is all right.

 

_\--_

 

 _“Assok!”_ you gasp, holding your arms out. The kid (Assok’s a kid! Like you! A kid!) plows into you, nearly knocking you off your feet, and they’re only a little bigger than you so you can wrap your arms fully around their ribcage and cry with laughter into their ear, and they can cry into yours, and you are so happy.

 

When they pull back, grinning like a maniac, you grab their face and look them over with a critical eye. The sweatshirt they wear is the same shade as the sock puppet they used to be, and their skin is as dark as Julienne’s. You’re kind of surprised by the fact that they’re a few inches taller than you, since you spent so much time carrying them around.

 

“Oh my gosh, Assok, I’m so happy to see you!” you gush, beaming so hard your face hurts. They smile back, showing off their gaptooth.

 

“Sohapp ee!” they echo.

 

“Oh,” you say, your heart sinking. “That’s still a thing, huh?”

 

“Stilla thing,” they confirm cheerfully. “Stil happ ee!”

 

You wipe your eyes and force your smile. Of course, Make-Believe wouldn’t let them go so easily. You’ve been deliberately ignoring the tinny quality of Dial’s voice and the stitched scars on TOby’s face, but Assok’s forced echolalia is something that you can’t push away so easily. Even after they got a body that wasn’t a sock, they still bear scars from their time in that nebulous, faraway world.

 

All of them do.

 

You turn and look back at all of them.

 

Melody probably wasn’t always nonverbal. Julienne bears old knife scars all up and down her arms, on her shoulders, on her face.

 

Tailor’s curly hair, despite them being on the younger side, is gray like their wrappings were. Tinker’s feet are bronze and steel, and you’d be willing to bet that the prosthetics extend all the way up his legs.

 

And Dial’s voice. And TOby’s scars.

 

Dial’s smiling when you turn around, but his smile drops when he sees your face. You guess your smile doesn’t look smiley enough.

 

“Hey...everythin’ alright?” he inquires, stepping forward and dropping onto his haunches. “I mean, we’re all here now, and I know the...well, the livin’ situation musta been bad, just based on what I’ve seen, but...but you don’t have to go back, ya know? If ya don’t want to, I mean. Right, guys?” he continues, turning to look at the others. You start to tell him that isn’t what you’re sad about, you’re sad because they _died,_ and they’re still messed up from their time spent there, and even if it’s not your fault you still feel like it is, a little bit, and he’s right, you don’t have anywhere to go, and you really really _really_ want to stay here, but before you can start you get cut off by a clamor of voices.

 

“Oh! Yes!” Tailor says excitedly, bouncing a little bit. “Yes, yes, yes, that is a _great_ idea! _Yes!”_

 

“Careful, your kid bias is showing,” TOby snorts.

 

“I do _not_ have a kid bias, you uncultured _swine,”_ Tailor retorts. “I have a _Hero_ bias.” Tinker laughs.

 

“I would love it if Hero came to stay with us. I think that’s an event that should occur,” Julienne says, raising a hand. Melody beams beside her and nods, signing in agreement. Assok jumps up and down, waving their hands and jabbering borrowed affirmatives.

 

You look around at all of them, gesturing at you, discussing plans for your school, asking you to _stay,_ they want you to _stay,_ and you kind of tear up a little bit because you didn’t think they’d want you to stay _forever._

 

 _Hero,_ Melody signs, suddenly kneeling in front of you. You startle and dash your tears away, looking at her expectantly.

 

 _...your parents?_ she asks hesitantly. You lower your gaze and shake your head.

 

“They forgot, too,” you mutter. Melody looks sad, but not entirely surprised. Dial and TOby exchange uncomfortable looks, then TOby leans in and says something to Dial, and Dial nods and slips past you, going back into the house.

 

A short pause ensues, then Tailor speaks up anxiously with, “So...is this okay? With Hero? I mean—I mean, Hero, are you okay with this? With—with _us,_ with living with us? Do you want that?”

 

They all look at you expectantly. You stare back. Their forms blur and shiver. You’re crying again. You nod.

 

Yes. Yes, yes, yes. Yes, you want to stay with them, this is what you want, they are your family now.

 

The door creaks behind you, and you turn around. Everyone looks up. Dial clomps down the steps and strides toward you, beaming like the sun.

 

“Alright, so we’re all a little confused and happy and sad right now, BUT! I think I know what’ll cheer ya up!” he grins, giving you a little nudge with his elbow.

 

Then he turns to yell back at the house. “Cuz, get out here! There’s a surprise out here for ya!”

 

The irritable voice that responds makes you go numb all over.

 

“Dial, I’m genuinely serious this time, if I step into another tripwire or get water dumped on my head, I really _am_ going to lose my rag.”

 

It’s clearer than you remember, but it’s still very low and carries the same accent as those stuffy announcers on television. (Sometimes, near the end of your journey, you would imitate his accent in a cartoonish, exaggerated way just to make him laugh.) It’s still the same voice. It’s his voice. It’s _his_ voice.

 

“No, no, nothin’ like that,” Dial says, nervously grinning at you sideways. “C’mon out here, yer gonna love this, I swear.”

 

You stare at the door and the gloved hand on it. The door opens a bit more.

 

His head is obscured in shadow for a second, but he looks the same. No suit jacket, but he’s still wearing his dress shirt, suspenders, and bowtie, and those dumb spats on his shoes. Still short, but broad in the shoulders and chest.

 

You choke when he steps into the sunlight, blinking irritably. _Blinking._ With his eyes.

 

Square-jawed, hook-nosed, sharp-eyed, face thin and angular, and with wild, curly hair in five different bright colors not found in nature tumbling behind his ears, but you _recognize_ those colors. You recognize him. You know who he is, even if he wears a human face now.

 

It’s your guardian. Your protector. Your monster. Your friend. Your big dumb sham artist tellyhead guide, fully human, descending the steps of the house, squinting against the bright light, fighting to focus on you.

 

 _“Ow,_ damn,” he grumbles. “Dial, what-”

 

He stops short as his eyes slowly adjust. You’re still quietly crying with shock and grief and happiness and you-don’t-even-know-what, your eyes stinging and big tears leaking slowly and steadily down your cheeks, dripping off your chin. You think you might have turned to stone, and if you move, you’ll crack.

 

RGB takes two unsteady steps forward and stops. His eyes are fixed firmly on your face, expression suddenly wide-eyed and vulnerable.

 

You unfreeze and open your mouth. Your words crawl back down your throat, making it close up. The Heroes behind you are totally silent.

 

The world stops spinning, and everything is very still.

 

“Hi,” you finally croak. “Thanks for waiting for me.”

 

RGB’s expression cracks right down the middle, eyes welling up and face twisting. He takes one step and then he’s running, and you’re not sure whether you should move out of the way or not because he’s running at you, and as you’re debating this point with yourself you see him toss his cane at Dial and reach out for you.

 

RGB slams into you so hard you lose your breath for the nth time today, wraps his arms around you and squeezes you so tightly you can’t see anything, tangles a gloved hand in your hair and folds himself around you. You gasp into his shoulder and wrap your legs around him like a koala, holding on like your life depends on it, which it just might, if the way your heart’s trying to break your rib cage open is any indication. His palms are warm and solid where they press against your back and head, holding you close to him, grounding you firmly in reality.

 

His chest shakes like he’s laughing, but when he presses his cheek against yours and whispers in your ear, _“I never gave up on you, never,”_ his cheek is wet.

 

Everyone’s been crying a lot today, you muse as you bury your face in his collarbone. You tense when another hand that isn’t RGB’s touches your back, but it’s Tinker’s, and everyone else surrounds you and locks you in for the second time; your family in a misshapen circle and you at the center.

 

“I don’t want to go back,” you choke out. “I want to stay with you.”

 

RGB laughs wetly. “Well,” he says hoarsely, giving you a squeeze, “if you must.”

 

Yes. This is the ending that you’ve been looking for.

**Author's Note:**

> yeah.
> 
> probably gonna turn this into a series; there are a lot of unresolved issues here. i don't know, what do you guys think?


End file.
